


Showers, the Sea, and Sentiment

by ffonippop



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/F, F/M, Implied Relationships, Irene has feelings, Post-Episode: s02e01 A Scandal in Belgravia, Sentiment, Switching Perspectives, a couple of, and sometimes those feelings are sad :(, for the soul, headcanons, i love projecting my trauma on characters, implied/referenced trauma, irene adler is best girl, irene adler is human, irene adler is one too, its trauma from karachi bc yall cannot tell me that my girl made it out of there with peace of mind, jim moriarty is a spider, kate is human, please comfort her, post asib, sherlock is human, theyre all flawed but this one focuses more on irene, very pretty metaphors to cover up the fact that i have no idea what im doing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-11
Updated: 2020-01-11
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:42:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22204282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ffonippop/pseuds/ffonippop
Summary: There are three things Irene Adler hates, and one thing she doesn't.
Relationships: Irene Adler & Kate (Sherlock), Irene Adler/Kate (Sherlock), Irene Adler/Sherlock Holmes
Comments: 4
Kudos: 12





	Showers, the Sea, and Sentiment

**Author's Note:**

> fgsgxgsgx im sorry if this isnt as good as a lot of my other pieces of writing i hope u enjoy it anyway though i love u :)

Irene Adler, _the_ Woman herself, was very particular about what she liked. She was precise and insistent and fairly capable of knowing herself above all else, something she prided in herself, though the phrase "prided in herself" usually meant very little when concerning Irene Adler, because she had a tendency to be a prideful creature.

If she or anyone who had the pleasure (or displeasure) of meeting her were to be honest, despite the fact that the Woman was a prideful creature, she wasn't much of a _sentimental_ creature, so it was much more difficult to find something the Woman actually _liked_ about herself rather than _pride_ in herself.

Pride and care were two different things, and the Woman, who was pride first and collateral damage second knew this truer than anyone. Just because she took pride in being the Woman, didn't mean she _liked_ it. 

She knows, though, that despite the rarity of finding things she liked, there are, at an average ratio, a three to one number of things she hates and likes.

Here are three she hates and one she likes. 

* * *

_one._

Hot and steamy showers. 

She never _liked_ hot showers. They made her skin feel like it had shrunk two sizes too small for her insides, capturing her in a mess of crunched and itchy skin. 

Feeling cramped in a room she could handle - and she had once or twice or maybe ten times when she had a client who had a particular _interest_ in cramped spaces - but feeling cramped in her own skin made something squirm unpleasantly inside Irene's brain, like she wasn't in control, like her own body had finally turned against her, suffocating her with it's own restraints.

Hot showers made her face cringe and her skin crawl against the blood and muscle and fat that was held inside. And if they were steamy... well, Irene knew _for sure_ she hated those. 

She hated the thin white vapor that surrounded her when she opened the shower door, making the air she breathed feel suffocating and stuffy.

She hated the layer of fog that stuck to her mirrors, concealing her face and body from herself, not allowing her to see her image of ivory skin and 32-24-34 figure. She couldn't see herself when the vapor had gathered. 

She hated the way the vapor stuck to her skin, heating her with unpleasant steam kisses and making her sweat after she'd showered, making her feel unclean even after she had taken the measures to feel exactly the opposite of that.

She hated _everything_ about steamy showers. 

They were displeasing and stuffy and cramped and if there was something Irene Adler loathed more than losing The Game, more than looking Death in the eye as punishment for her failures, it would probably have been the hot shower she retreated to immediately after, the hot shower she'd been forced to take to rid herself of the dirt and grime from the prisoner cell in Karachi she'd been stuck in for days.

She loathed the vapor that gathered around her, making the air hard to breathe, making her skin grip the insides of her body tightly, too tight. 

She hated the fog that gathered on the mirror of the bathroom, forcing Irene to gather up the courage to wipe it away just so she could see the damage done to her in Karachi, the effects of dehydration and starvation and physical torture that had been left on her body in a large array of marks and gashes and bruises and visible outlines of bone. 

When the air felt too warm to breathe and the steam kisses made her skin shrink too much to handle, Irene all but rushed to open the bathroom door and step outside stark naked and standing in front of the bathroom door of the hotel Sherlock Holmes had brought her into after the rescue. 

She breathed the colder air, savored the feeling of being away from the oppressive steam vapors, and stretched her fingers out in front of her, feeling her skin lose the shrinking feeling, becoming more accommodating for the blood rushing inside her and the heart pumping rapidly in her chest, calming down from the panic. 

She didn't answer the questioning look Sherlock Holmes had shot her, instead putting on the dressing gown she'd set aside on a hanger, covering up her bruises and marks and evidence of deprivation of food and water. The Woman pinned her hair up and nodded in approval, glancing distastefully at the steam that was escaping the cracks of the bathroom door. 

Yes, it was an absolutely fact, one that _you_ have drilled into your brain from the moment you started working for her as both her servant and her partner in command. 

It was an unsaid order from the beginning, and one you didn't understand at first, but one you followed anyway. 

You didn't understand why until she came back home to you one day in Belgravia, broken and bartered and vulnerable. 

Irene Adler, without a doubt, _loathed_ hot showers, but the day she came back, she asked for one - an order you were reluctant to fulfill given your known history of her distaste regarding steamy showers, but one she desperately needed you to. So you did.

She was gone the next day, leaving you alone in an empty house in Belgravia. The news spoke of her death, but _you_ knew she wasn't dead, because corpses don't come by in the middle of the night asking for hot showers to be prepared, and you, her loyal servant, the very same one who Sherlock Holmes into her home, wonder why she'd left you without any information. 

She seemed so much happier with your company, your trust and loyalty. She'd asked you to keep her company until she'd slept just yesterday and she had fallen asleep, and you did too. But obviously she woke up much earlier than you.

And obviously, she didn't stay.

Because you are _Kate_ , the monument of the things she'd lost, and you are the first person she hates. 

* * *

_two._

The beach. 

The Woman didn't have fond memories of the beach, granted there were few such memories of ever even going to them. 

She had been in the beach a grand total of eight times in her thirty-three years of existence, and all eight times she didn't enjoy herself in the slightest.

Out of the eight, six were from her childhood when she'd gone with people from her past, and even since her first visit to the beach, she never felt the enjoyment of the coast. 

Irene wasn't fond of running into the waves like the people around her were. The tides were too strong for her liking, pushing her to the coast one moment and pulling her with unwillable power into the depths the next.

Shoved and pulled and immersed in deep waters, she found she hated not being in control, vulnerable in the rough force of the sea. 

Irene would find herself being toyed around in the waters, occasionally feeling the water shove its way up her nostrils or even accidentally swallowing the too salty liquid. She hated it, the forceful movements of the waves, the untameable crashing and pulling. 

And when she'd finally managed to pull herself from the harassment of the salt water, Irene found another thing to hate: the sand. 

It was annoying in levels Irene couldn't describe. 

The small pieces of sand stuck to Irene's wet skin, got all over her belongings, and claimed everything as it's own. It was as messy and just as stubborn as the waves it touched, though more persistent.

Irene guessed she could blame her hatred of the sea easily on the fact the ocean reminded her of powerlessness, of her insignificance in the grand scheme of things. 

Pushed and pulled and forced under water to either drown or fight her way up, Irene could find similarities in the beach and what she hated - no, _feared_ \- the most: losing control. 

The Woman could make humanity bow at her feet, bring nations into wars, and play people like instruments. But the ocean would not bow to her, because the ocean was untameable and stubborn and rough.

Because she may be able to bend all who own beating hearts to her will, but the ocean could make it so her heart would stop beating. 

One who conquers the conquerer conquers all. 

And when the ocean had won against her, the sand was there waiting to cover her body and stick on her skin.

Irene Adler had gone to the beach a grand total of eight times in her three decades of existence, but it takes only one visit for her to know that the beach was not a place she enjoyed. 

And _you_ knew this. _You_ , a criminal mastermind an King of an underground network of killers and smugglers and all types of lawless fools, knew this. 

You longed to be what she hates, you _longed_ for her to loathe you, to fear you. You wished to be the sand that clings to her ivory skin, remind her of her failures and claim her as your pawn in a chess game of life and death.

You hoped to be the uncontrollable sea, playing her under your waves, occasionally submersing her into the water to drown and fight her way up. 

Because you were _Jim Moriarty_ , the monument of her mistakes, and you are the second person she hated. 

* * *

_three._

Love. 

If you'd encountered the Woman in her childhood ballet studio in Paris on the rare occasions she'd be feeling sentimental and if you were lucky enough for her to be feeling vulnerable as well, she might tell you some things about Love.

She'd make It sound beautiful, like It deserves to be capitalized, with her rolling syllables and drawled out vowels, but rest assured, she will tell you things about Love, but not like you'd expect. 

She'll tell you things about Love. Horrible, terrible things. 

She'd tell you she'd fallen in Love once or twice, and she'd say this quietly as she walks to the Barre and traces her finger on it experimentally, smiling with melancholy to herself.

Very rarely do situations arise when she gives her heart out to someone. It's uncertain how many times she ever actually fell in Love, but one thing is clear: more people have loved her than she Loved them. 

"It's a curious thing," she might say to you, facing the mirror wall with false interest, the moonlight from the dusty windows turning her skin silver in the places it touched. " _Falling_ in Love. Not rising. Falling." 

And if you were smart or particularly clever like she is, you might reply, "That should be the point, isn't it? It - love - isn't beautiful. It's tragic." You haven't quite figured out how to make it sound capitalized yet. 

And she'd turn. And she'd look deep into your pale blue eyes for the sweetest fraction of a moment before brushing up her arm against your face, tucking back a loose curl of black hair back in place and letting her hands fall from your face to your chest. The touch is unfamiliar but you do not move to stop her.

Her touch is ghostly, and it feels like it isn't even there sometimes, like she's flipping between dimensions or she's losing solidity with every warm breath. A wonderful comparison, you think, because she is still dead to the eyes of the many, and in many ways, she is a ghost, a person from another dimension, another time.

She places her hand on the lapel of your Belstaff coat, the very same one you'd lent her once before, the very same one she returned to you on her first break in to your flat.

And to continue to conversation, she says, her voice quiet but accusatory,

"How would you know what Love feels like?"

And it stings. But you don't defend yourself right now because it's not what she needs. She doesn't need someone to argue with. She needs someone to help her. 

So you bite your tongue and say, "How do you feel it?"

And she laughs hollowly. Her next words bring the conversation back in a sad but full circle. "Like _falling_."

And she looks at you with tragedy in her eyes and a sorrowful smile on her blood red lips. She's felt Love for someone very rarely, and you know she was invested with the woman in Belgravia once, but she's not thinking of Belgravia right now. 

As she stares at you, you know she's thinking of you, and the time she Loved you. The time you caused her to fall. Well, you practically threw her off a cliff, if you're honest.

You recall it, her fall. You recall being cold. You recall freezing her under your gaze. You recall your apathetic expression when she begged you not to freeze her wings. You recall freezing them anyway.

She's tired and she's still looking at you. She's falling again. 

Because you are _Sherlock Holmes_ , the monument of her Love, and you are the third person she hates. 

* * *

_one._

Exceptions. 

Despite it all, Irene Adler relished the idea of the unlikely. She was rapt by the thought of something that went against everything, the privilege of one thing others could only dream of. 

She excretes fascination, mystery, adventure.

Despite how particular and stubborn she was, she knew exceptions were, well, the exceptions to her stubbornness. 

_Irene Adler hated hot showers._

But Irene Adler didn't hate hot showers when she took them in the dingy old Motel she'd run to after the public announcement of her second death, the Motel outside of London that she'd entered after she left Belgravia in a hotel at the dead of night.

She took the shower with the bathroom door open, to make sure there was an easy escape if the steam got too much and she needed to take a break from the heat. 

She wondered idly if Kate was still asleep back in Belgravia, if her assistant and friend was aware that she had departed in the early hours of the morning. She welcomed the distraction of hot water for the sole purpose that it was something for Irene to use to distract herself from the thought of Kate.

She welcomed the steam that covered the mirrors, that concealed her body. She knew she missed her old reflection, the one that didn't showcase all her hurt and pain and scars and suffering, and to see her reflection now would do more harm than good. And she was more than grateful that the fog didn't clear up until she had covered all her scars with a heavy layer of makeup and clothes.

She embraced the tight feeling of her skin. Because they reminded her of the old Irene Adler. They reminded her of the tight dresses she once found comfortable but couldn't wear for now because they were too painful to put on. They reminded her of the hugs from Kate and nights with clients.

They reminded Irene Adler of the Woman. The Woman she once was, and the healing she would need to do before she would become the Woman again. 

She was grateful for that shower. For the steam and the water and the distractions and reminder. She was grateful for an exception in her dislike for such things.

_Irene Adler hated the beach._

But Irene Adler didn't hate the beach when she sat alone at the coastline of California. The sun was setting but the sand was still warm when she buried her feet under it's surface. She hadn't gone into the water so the sand didn't stick to her skin like they used to all the other times she'd visited the coast.

Irene Adler would have been dead for two or more years before she'd found herself wandering around the beach she'd gone to during her childhood, idly waking in the wasn't before sitting down and remaining there, sitting still. Calmly. Relaxed. 

This was her _ninth_ time going to the beach and the sea was calmer than it was many years ago. Her body wasn't coated with the salt water and so the sand found nothing it could cling to and claim. 

And she sat there, peacefully, idly. 

News of Sherlock's suicide had gone out a week ago at this point, but the Woman knew more than to trust the media. After all, it had her death wrong, too.

No, Irene knew better than to believe the detective was dead. She did, however, trust the whispers of Moriarty's web, because the criminals lied less than the television. 

And the criminals said Jim was dead. 

The gentle clashing of the waves against the sand faded to a dull crashing in the background as Irene thought to herself. The main reason she'd even gone into hiding in the first place was gone, shot dead by his own hand. 

Irene's eyes scanned over the pink waves. She stood up wordlessly. Her two years of idle vacation were over. The Spider in the middle of the web was gone and the throne was empty. 

Irene Adler smiled at the beach with genuine and sincere enjoyment before she turned her back on it. She was ready to become the Woman again. And maybe, she was ready to become the Spider who took over the web as well. 

And as the pink sky faded into navy into black, Irene walled away, the smile of the dominatrix plastered on blood red lips and the venom of a spider in her thoughts. 

This evening, the beach didn't mark Irene's lack of control, but rather highlighted a new era, a new opportunity to gain it back. She walked away, and for the first time, she looked back. And the Woman smiled.

_And Irene Adler hated sentiment._

But tonight she was grateful for it. 

Because if she weren't feeling sentimental, then maybe she wouldn't have texted one Sherlock Holmes the moment his ressurection was announced - well, due to be announced. One of her inside men in the MI6 had only just reported seeing him return from some sort of suicide mission. 

It had been three years since _the_ Moriarty died, and Irene was now the Spider. She had long since replaced Moriarty as the leader of the vast criminal underground, and things had changed. 

And now Sherlock was going to be back from the dead, not that Irene ever believed he had died in the first place. 

Sentiment had been her downfall with Sherlock Holmes once, and she was careful to drill that in her mind, but she couldn't quite help the burst of sentiment from escaping her thoughts and turning physical when she picked up her phone. 

With a thin, hopeful smile on her blood red lips, Irene pressed familiar keys on the phone, amusement clear as day on her porcelain features. 

**_We're not dead. Let's have dinner._ **

And perhaps for the second time ever, he replied.

**_Even in death I can't escape your ridiculous invitations to dinner._ **

Irene gave the phone in her hands a sorrowful, oddly nostalgic smile. She didn't miss the rejection, but it was familiar, and the Woman had just held her finger on the off button when a new text lit up her screen.

**_It's been too long, Miss Adler. One might think you were actually dead._ **

Irene let her eyes shine with amusement. Her brain flicked back to the memory of her encounter with Sherlock Holmes in her old ballet studio, when he'd accused him of never feeling Love. And she thought of this when she typed:

**_Careful, Mr. Holmes. One might think you cared._ **

And the answer came by slower than his previous one did:

**_One might say I do._ **

Irene laughed, deep and low. **_I wouldn't let all your hard work in keeping me alive go to waste._ **_**Let's have dinner.**_

_**Perhaps some day. I've got something tonight.** _

_**What can a dead man possibly be busy doing?** _

_**Tonight? Living. Goodnight, Miss Adler.** _

**_Goodnight, Mr. Holmes._ **

Irene smiled.

Tonight she ended the conversation with "Goodnight." To most other people, that would be insignificant, but to Irene Adler, the Woman who's last words were due to be "Good bye," the silent promised that they'd speak again was wonderful.

With a last read of the text again, Irene turned her phone off. 

No, sentiment was to be her downfall. But tonight, she felt alive, she felt recognized and... lively. As alive as a dead woman could be. Silently, for the first time, she thanked her sentiment.

She hated them all. 

She hated hot showers and loss and Kate, she hated beaches and flaws and Moriarty, she hated Love and sentiment and Sherlock Holmes. 

But she treasured exceptions. 

The hot wash that reminded Irene Adler of the familiarity of Kate and the easy days was the single hot shower she enjoyed, an outlier to all the others she'd taken. 

The beach on the day Irene Adler had heard of the Spider's death was the one beach visit she thoroughly enjoyed. The Spider's death marked a new beginning, new opportunities. When the sky painted itself a golden orange that evening, Irene Adler was in control and at peace. 

And the sentiment that rushed to her when she found where Sherlock stood was the best burst of emotion Irene had ever felt. The sentiment she felt that urged her to message Sherlock brought enjoyment to the Woman who silently thanked her impulsive sentiment. 

And _you_ know your likes and dislikes. You know you hate hot showers unless they remind you of Belgravia once upon a time. You know you hate the beach unless it was the visit made after Moriarty died. And you know you hate sentiment unless you feel yourself rising rather than falling, when you aren't rejected or refused or ignored. 

Because _you_ are Irene Adler, the monument of your own desires and self, and you _like_ knowing you can change.

**Author's Note:**

> okok sgzgsgxs so uh yea.
> 
> most of this was just me projecting onto irene bc shes my designated Projection Character and i love her. a lot of her feelings towards karachi and everything that happened afterwards was just me projecting my own sorta feelings but idk i think we need to have at least a couple conversations before u unlock my backstory dgxgsgxhd lmao
> 
> but like sgxgsgxs forrealsies i really just wanted to show the more,,,, human side of irene adler bc i think thats like, a piece of her personality thats so crucial to the way she interacts with people and things, and i think its so very often overlooked.
> 
> i also kinda wanted to show more of her relationship with kate bc personally i think that kate was like a trusted person, close enough to irene for her to be a figure irene at the least bit respected. usually i dont think that they were romantically involved but idk something abt this fic made me go "no they were in love" and i just went with it. the main goal was to show that irene was human and had feelings and emotions and acted on them sometimes and idk. 
> 
> im not as proud of this one as i am with a lot of my other works but u know. it vibes. idk why the ending bothers me so much but uh idk im still proud of it as a whole. i think that i made it and even if its not the best, i still made it. and i think thats fine
> 
> thank u so much to @adler-esque on tumblr (https://www.tumblr.com/blog/adler-esque) for encouraging me to publish this and giving me a lil bit more confidence in myself. without her, i think this wouldve been stored away in my drafts without ever being published lmao. 
> 
> pls check out some of her stuff too bc shes honestly such a good writer and she deserves appreciation👏👏👏  
> -alex  
> @skittlesun on Tumblr :))  
> (https://www.tumblr.com/blog/skittlesun)


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